


I Said Thanks Anyways  (But In The End You Were Only Gasoline For My Fire)

by fandomslut1998



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: (ikr I can't quite imagine it either), 1920, Assassin!Luke, Assassin!Michael, Canada, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Halifax (City), Halifax Collision, I realised after I wrote it that if you've seen the movie Mr. and Mrs. Smith, I think that's it??, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Spy!AU, Spy!Luke, Spy!Michael, ok not really but that's sort of relevant I think??, sad!Michael, spoilers soz guys, spy AU, this is basically the fluffy Muke version of that, uummm, yeah I wrote this for school so there's no smut sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5136413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomslut1998/pseuds/fandomslut1998
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the one where michael is tired of everything, canada is cold, and luke just worms his way into everyone's heart somehow</p><p> </p><p>(lowercase intended for description)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Said Thanks Anyways  (But In The End You Were Only Gasoline For My Fire)

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this for English class and liked it enough to give to you guys (: Don't refer to this work for historical purposes as it's horrendously inaccurate (unless you're planning to be Michael irl, then have fun dropping out and working at McDonald's until you're 70, dead or famous). 
> 
> I know I usually have some obscure song or band the title is from, but this actually just relates & came from my head. (And okay, maybe I was listening to Gasoline by Halsey aka everyone's queen.)
> 
> To my teacher: I would say I'm sorry for this, but I actually really like how it turned out, so I'm not going to (:

It was a cold morning, and Michael's thin gloves did nothing to ward off the bite as he flexed his tense fingers around the handle of the instrument he held, but of course they wouldn't help. He was in Halifax, after all, and his Australian blood wasn't used to these winters.

It was actually more than a little bit strange that he was even in Canada, never mind alone, but when he had received the message from headquarters last week he knew that there was no avoiding this. No matter what the cost may turn out to be, if he valued his life Michael would have to go through with this. He rolled his shoulders, put the knife away and climbing on the rickety motorbike he had rented not an hour ago using a false name. The morning promised a pretty but crisp day, and Michael thought that it was kind of foreboding. Looking over his shoulder to ensure no one was around, Michael rode towards the sunrise in the east, towards the Harbour, towards a legacy of pain and destruction and memory, and perhaps towards his own fate.

Arriving in Halifax Harbour a few days earlier had been an adventure in itself. In 1920, as the world was still reeling from the War, tension was still high and, no matter how hard they tried, even the oldest of neighbours were less than amicable towards each other in spirit, only keeping up appearances now. Everyone had something to worry about, whether it be feeding the children that night, thawing the wheels on the bicycle with no seat well enough to ride to work, or simply getting through the lonely, dark nights. Michael had stepped off the boat, successfully avoided prying questions from well-meaning men protecting their country by displaying his papers with the Governor General's "approval" for him to be in this country ("official government-mandated business", as you would have it), and immediately gotten caught up in the forced cheerfulness of the city. Because that was the thing, wasn't it: they _tried_. By God, they tried, and Michael's own cheeks almost hurt with the intensity of the smiles on the grimy, too-thin faces of the dock workers as they whistled friendly tunes and gossiped like the elderly might about Dally's new baby girl, and isn't it a shame that her last one was a stillborn, but this child seemed to be healthy, and wasn't that all that really mattered, and oh, if the grandparents weren't absolutely besotted with the little one already! The manila folder which had contained his briefing had described the city as being thriving hub of Canadian spirit and culture before the collision, but Michael thought that if anything, that's what it was now. Before, the people of this city and Dartmouth across the Harbour had simply been living out their lives, but now they had something to live for - proving that they were better than what had happened, that they could and would get over it. Michael had seen plenty of destruction in his time. His emerald eyes had seen much more agony than any tissue not even two decades old should have, and Michael thought he knew a thing or two about tragedy. This? This was what surviving looked like. This was what ambition to move on and live looked like. Michael wished he looked like that, like he was something better than what he was, because he considered himself a coward, and cowards don't live through ambition. They live through fear, and older cowards who knew the art of manipulation well lived vicariously through the younger ones, making them act out their ambitions like puppets until their strings had been cut and they had completely lost sight of their own dreams.

Riding towards the sunrise with his nose and fingers frozen by the chilly ocean air was an invigorating, beautiful sight. Hands down, ten out of ten, would do again. He tried to enjoy the little time he had left before he arrived and was forced to be professional, but Michael couldn't help feeling like every time he rode off into the sunset, he was moving ever further away from his dreams; like he was only surviving because he was hooked up to oxygen, but every time he completed an order he removed the mask to take a breath of fresh air for just a little longer, and it was slowly killing him.

Arriving at the nondescript building on a rundown street in the city was nothing special. He had done this too many times before to have any remote feelings about what he would do today. Excitement, pride, even the hole generally reserved for the inevitable guilt wasn't there. Lately, everything was fading into the background, and while it was kind of terrifying, it was also kind of wonderful to feel so empty. Sometimes, Michael wished this would all just be over, but sometimes he couldn't even bring himself to care. He walked in, received his verbal briefing, reviewed everything and walked out. There was nothing new about the routine, and he only wondered when he was going home.

_Hemmings, Luke Robert. Freshly 19 years of age; blue eyes, blonde hair, 6'1. Preferred target time: 6 pm. Assumed location: Sal's Fish N' Parts, Sylfan Market. Secondary target time: 8:30 pm. Assumed location: Barb & Derek Sweetenburg's Bed & Breakfast, 361 Veteran's Ave. _

_Whatever,_ Michael thought _. It's weird that he's so young, but he's just another kill for the bosses._

 _Just another job_.

As luck would have it, this Luke boy was at the first location Michael had been provided with at the correct time, eating supper. Michael noted that he ate the food with surprising delicacy, considering it was greasy and his hands were huge. The young assassin hung back while he waited for his own order, planning what to say.

Truth be told, Michael was surprised he had even been recruited for this mission. His last one had been his first off of Australian soil, and he had botched it. You knew it had gone badly when a government spy had to risk his own position to finish the job. Michael had brushed it off (those damn Russians, getting in the way all the time), but he knew it was completely his own fault. The target had been young, pretty and royal, Michael had talked too much, suspicions had been raised, and in his hurry to get out Michael had failed to make sure she was no longer breathing. It had been a struggle to cover up Anastasia's death, so in the end no one did and she was simply declared missing after the rest of her family was shot for good measure. However, Michael was even more surprised when Luke moved to sit by him. Taken aback, he returned the other boy's smile too late ( ~~distracted by the absolutely adorable dimples~~ ). Maybe this would be easier than he thought?

 

During their conversation ("how long have you lived here?", "just visiting for a few days", "me too"!), Michael noticed how Luke's careful North American accent was almost too careful, and he couldn't help but ask "are you Australian?" when Luke slipped up for the third time. Luke nodded sheepishly, and Michael let his own thick dialect ring through quietly. "I am too."

Really, that should have been the first sign. It should have been, but it wasn't.

Later, when they had wandered to the B&B the agency had provided as a second option of scene if the first didn't work out, Luke turned away for a second, digging in the inside pocket of his jacket. Michael took the opportunity to do the same, and when they turned around, they were pointing knives at each other. The boys were silent, drinking in the silent power of the thriving hub of Canadian spirit and culture they had been sent to, inches away from the point of their deaths. Michael froze, and he knew. He hadn't been sent on a real mission at all; he had been sent to his death, and so had Luke. They had both messed up too badly to be allowed to continue, and now they were just as invaluable as those who were too old to do the job. He took a shaky breath, and reflected, not for the first time, on how worthless he was because of his lack of personal ambition as he lowered the tool slightly _._

"I don't want to kill you." Luke's warm breath created a cloud in the moist air. Michael shrugged easily.

"So don't, then." Luke faltered, his confident facade finally slipping. He stuttered on his next sentence - "but you have to kill me, too" - until Michael was nearly frustrated enough to reach over and slap the words out of him. His grip tightened on the wooden hilt of his weapon, and he chose his next words carefully. 

"Your room is booked for another night, isn't it?" Wide-eyed, Luke nodded hesitantly, and gained his confidence back when Michael was backing him against the door and biting and licking at his neck, claiming him as his own. He pushed the older boy backwards, and they curled together fully clothed only minutes later with kiss-bruised mouths. Michael left a mumbled promise mingling with Luke's breath that they both heard in the morning when they woke up together.

"We don't have to kill anyone anymore."

When they rode towards the Interior less than twelve hours later to cultivate their own Canadian spirit, Michael looked back and thought that the sunrise looked kind of promising now that he knew what he wanted out of life. Everything he could ever dream of was holding on to his waist tightly with the wind blowing through his dirty blonde hair on the back of the motorbike that the owner would probably never see again, on that bumpy dirt road with puddles and potholes and ice, and Michael was, if not ambitious, at least a bit hopeful.

(And if they left a note behind on Luke's cheap nightstand underneath matching agency-issued knives that read "Burn in hell - Mike" and, underneath that, "Thank you for everything, but we don't need you anymore - Luke", then no one had to know except for those who came to retrieve their bodies hours later.)

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I changed my mind, I'm very sorry about this, it's short and horrible but I kind of like it anyways.


End file.
